


In Which Sherlock Says Goodbye to Lestrade Before the Fall

by second_skin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Goodbyes, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 20:04:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something happens after Greg helps Sherlock make his birthday greeting for John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Sherlock Says Goodbye to Lestrade Before the Fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [archea2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/archea2/gifts), [fengirl88](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/gifts).



Greg packs up the camera and snaps the case closed, chuckling to himself.

"What are you snickering about, Lestrade?"

"You, Sherlock. You don't really think John's friends hate him, do you? You know when you see those looks of disdain on people's faces, they're looking at _you_ , right? All that animosity is directed at you."

The right side of Sherlock's mouth turns up in a half grin. "Obviously. John is beloved; I am despised. A running joke. He'll understand."

"Hmm. I hope so. You two are quite mad, you know. A mismatched pair, if ever I saw one--but you're perfect for each other." Greg sets the camera case on the floor and walks to the chair to pick up his overcoat.

"People used to say the same about you and me--remember?" Sherlock's voice is an octave lower now and he's trailing his long pale fingers over Greg's coat. The sly git has positioned himself so Greg can't quite manage to get the coat without half-embracing him, so Greg retreats to the kitchen for a glass of water. He can feel the buzz in the air and doesn't want to give in to it. He's managed to free himself from the perpetual ache that used to plague him. He doesn't know if he can bear to revisit that feeling right now.

"Yeah, I'm not going down that road--no memory lane tonight, Sherlock. I've got to get this equipment back and then catch up on some work at the Yard. So just stop it."

"Oh relax, Lestrade, I'm not going to try to compromise your virtue. It's been four years. We've both moved on, haven't we?" Sherlock is smiling almost sweetly, but Greg isn't falling for it. You can't listen to his words or look at his facial expressions, he's learned that much. You have to gauge the timbre of his voice to know what's going on in the man's mind. And the little rumble and lower register means trouble.

"Why don't you stay a little while and we'll get some takeaway and have a chat. I'd appreciate the company."

Lestrade's hand trembles just for a second as he sets his glass in the sink, but he knows Sherlock sees it. _Shit_. "Yeah, okay. I could do with some dinner."

  
Even as he calls in their order for a couple of spicy Thai dishes and some mango ice cream, Greg is trying to determine whether he should ask why or just let it happen with no questions or explanations. It's not that he's powerless, exactly. He can walk away, has walked away in the past. But so often his body and his heart trump his brain in matters related to Sherlock. Sherlock's mercurial desires, the particular intensity when he makes love is something Greg cannot resist now that he no longer has a wedding ring to look at when he hears the question vibrating in the air.

  
Tonight there is some mischief and some new need in Sherlock's voice and Greg will answer yes to both.

As they finish their meal and drain the last drops from a bottle of cheap red wine, Sherlock reaches out to pull Greg's hand into his, staring at the pattern of creases and blue veins visible just under the skin in his palm. He doesn't look at Greg's eyes, just his hands, for the longest time. Rubbing his thumb across the moons of Greg's fingernails. Stroking the thick fingers. At first--all those years ago--Greg had been uncomfortable with such scrutiny, impatient with Sherlock's slow movements, the meticulous unbuttoning and unzipping, the examining of skin and scars with the pads of Sherlock's own long fingers and tip of his tongue. But after awhile, Sherlock taught him to let everything go and enjoy being the object of passionate attention. Greg stopped thinking about what should happen next, stopped trying to guess what Sherlock was mapping and cataloging on his face and body. Greg let himself be possessed by Sherlock's gaze. He learned to sense the weight of Sherlock's desire from across the room, even before he felt the weight of Sherlock's hands and lips and chest pressing down on him.

Now Greg lets Sherlock undress him and pull him to the carpet. When he tries to unbutton Sherlock's shirt, Greg's hands are gently shoved away. It'll be one at a time, tonight. Sherlock wants to concentrate on getting to know Greg's body again--every little fold and bruise and gray hair that he's missed since the last time they lay naked together. Then he'll surely let Greg do the same, but later--after Sherlock has had his curiosity sated.

Greg closes his eyes when the room starts spinning and his breathing becomes too quick and shallow. _Too much wine_. He takes deep breaths and listens to the counterpoint of Sherlock's heartbeat against his own. When he opens his eyes he sees Sherlock's dark curls across his chest and feels Sherlock's warm, wet lips stuttering over his ribs, finding the palest, most sensitive flesh under Greg's arms and along his hip.

Greg moves his hand to Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock, wait. Wait a minute, please."

Sherlock doesn't like talking, but usually doesn't mind if Greg whispers a few curses or silly words of affection they can both forget the next day. But Greg needs to say more now, so he pulls Sherlock's chin up to meet his own and looks into the gray eyes. He just wants a moment of connection to let the genius know, make him remember.

"You're still a bloody wonder to me, Sherlock. What you do to me, how you creep into my bones and make me stronger and weaker at the same time. I don't care if it's once a year or once a decade--I'm glad you still want me. But I don't understand why now, after all this time. I don't understand . . ."

Greg hears a low sigh and then feels Sherlock's lips around him, throat opening to take him deeper, cheeks concave. The room is spinning again and this time Greg can't catch his breath. The tickle of hair against Greg's thigh is a sweet form of torture when Sherlock lifts his head and kisses and sucks at the tip of Greg's cock, licks and stabs with his tongue before sliding his pink lips around him again and again, until Greg can't remember the questions that had seemed so important a moment and a lifetime ago.

Hours later, they are wrapped around each other in Sherlock's bed. Sherlock's swollen lips are now warm and soft against Greg's ear, and he thinks he hears a whisper.

"I'm going away, Lestrade. There are plans in the works that can't be stopped now. But we'll have this again. I will come back." Sherlock's hand rests lightly across Greg's stomach, then brushes across his hip and tugs him closer. "John is my friend. You're my past and future. I'll come back to both of you."

Greg knows there's something important in that last breath he feels against his cheek as he falls asleep, and he wants to remember it. Wants to remember it, wants to . . . wants . . .

  
 

 

 

 


End file.
